by Lenora Bell
“I loathe the season.”
The shock and dismay on their faces was comical.
They began talking over each other.
“Loathe the season, why, how can that be?”
“What could you possibly find objectionable about such a venerable tradition?”
“The exhibitions, the races, the balls . . .”
Dalton grinned, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Really, old boy,” he added his voice to the mix. “Never say you don’t like the season. That’s positively unpatriotic.”
James nodded at the sideboard, and Robert leapt to attention. He had several bottles of aged French claret decanting on the sideboard.
Once James had a fortifying glass of wine in his hand, he interrupted the still-dithering ladies. “I detest it because of the preening, the prancing, the fatuous courtship rituals. Men hopping about in peacock-colored waistcoats. Debutantes displaying themselves for the highest bidder.”
Lady Dorothea tossed her head. “I see. You’d rather lure prospective mates to your home and audition us like a theatrical chorus. Why not simply hire an auctioneer? Put us on display? Dispense with any pretense of civility?”
She winced again.
“Precisely, Lady Dorothea. Why prevaricate?” he answered. “I’m dispensing with the hypocrisy. Everyone knows why young ladies attend balls. This occasion is no different.”
“It is vastly different,” sputtered Lady Tombs. “My daughter would never be in a theatrical chorus.” She stared around the table challengingly, daring someone to contradict her.
Dalton chuckled. If James had been able to reach him, he would have kicked him under the table. He wasn’t helping matters.
“Tell us about the improvements you’ve made to Warbury Park, Your Grace.” Lady Desmond made an attempt to steer the conversation along safer lines. “I hear you’ve modernized the kitchens?”
“Yes, tell us about the kitchens!” enthused dimpled Miss Tombs. “One must be ever so careful these days. I hope your housekeeper supervises the preparation of your breads? Especially the rye? I never eat bread myself, not after reading the fascinating writing of the learned Dr. Thuillier. You see, the grains could be simply riddled with Claviceps purpurea. I have no wish to see my skin peeling off in a slow, loathsome rot. Well, would you?”
There really was no answer to that.
He was saved by the arrival of Josefa carrying a gleaming silver tray heaped with the beginning of the second course—beef prepared with his favorite fragrant brown sauce. She glared at poor Robert, who had rushed to take the tray, and wasn’t satisfied until she had safely placed her masterpiece in front of James.
He smiled and reached for her weathered hand. “Allow me to present Mrs. Mendoza, my cook.” Instead of curtsying, she merely nodded, openly appraising the ladies one by one.
There was a scandalized silence.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Mendoza,” Lady Dorothea finally said.
Josefa studied Lady Dorothea. “Such a beauty,” she said in her thick Spanish accent. She turned to James. “Hermosa, no?”
Dalton winked at Josefa. “Señora, you are the most charming of all.”
Josefa wagged her finger at Dalton. “You naughty boy.” She turned back to Lady Dorothea. “Your father, he is a very important man?”
Lady Dorothea’s brow puckered. “Ah . . . yes.”
Josefa gave an approving nod. “Good. I like this one. She has manners.”
“Good gracious,” exclaimed Lady Desmond, not bothering to hide her astonishment.
James choked back a guffaw. If they knew the truth there would be a true uproar.
Josefa was only posing as his cook. In reality she was his business associate, and she had a vested interest in James finding a well-connected bride.
“I hope you enjoy the beef, ladies,” Josefa said. She inclined her head toward the footmen. “Bueno, you may serve.” She walked out of the room, the dark brown chignon of hair twisted on top of her head held as regally high as the marchioness’s feathers.
Dalton caught James’s eye, a wide grin on his face.
“My goodness,” said Lady Gloucester. “What a singular person.”
James could envision the ladies recounting the ordeal of Dinner with His Disgrace over tea with their friends when they returned to London.
Oh la, you’ll never believe what he did next. He introduced his cook to us at the table. And she didn’t even curtsy. I could have just died. . .
“I’ve never in all my life been introduced to a cook while dining,” said the marchioness. “And what on earth is this sauce? It’s quite pungent.”
The ladies pushed the beef around on their plates.
Lady Vivienne took a small bite and immediately brought her napkin to her lips to camouflage a bout of coughing. “Whatever is this flavored with?”
“I believe it has red chili peppers, anise, some coriander. And powdered cocoa beans. Rumor has it the Aztec people served a similar dish to Cortez when he arrived to conquer them, thinking he was a god.”
“Cocoa? You mean the cocoa we drink?” Lady Augusta eyed her plate with more interest. “I never thought it could be used in a sauce.”
“Some contend that one ounce of cocoa contains as much nourishment as one pound of beef. Man could subsist on chocolate alone if he had to,” James said.
“You have opened a cocoa manufactory, as I understand.” Lady Vivienne smiled smugly. She’d prepared.
“A small one. Not far from here, near Guildford. I’m modifying Banbury Hall.”
The marchioness raised an eyebrow. “Surely you have no need to engage in trade.”
“Need, no, but passion. I dream of Parliament lowering import duty taxes on cocoa beans grown on farms that use no slave labor.”
Josefa’s family owned just such a farm in the remote coastal village of Chuao, in the country of Venezuela and James was her primary investor.
Lady Dorothea smiled approvingly. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
“If import taxes are lowered, and better production methods discovered, everyone will be able to afford the nourishment and pleasure of drinking chocolate.” He waved a hand through the air. “Chocolate for the masses.”
“Admirable, I’m sure.” It was evident that Lady Vivienne thought it was anything but admirable that he advocated for something as plebeian-sounding as chocolate for the masses.
Lady Dorothea took a small taste of sauce. A blissful smile tilted up the edges of her delectable mouth.
The other ladies fanned themselves with their napkins.
“Have a sip of wine, ladies. I know it’s not customary for you to drink, but you’ll find it perfectly complements the sauce and takes some of the spice away.”
“Our family never partakes of spirits,” announced Lady Tombs. “ ‘For he shall separate himself from wine and strong drink,’ ” she intoned. “ ‘And shall drink no vinegar of wine, or vinegar of strong drink, neither shall he drink any liquor of grapes, nor eat moist grapes, or dried.’ ”
Miss Tombs winced. “I’ve always wanted to see Italy, but really, have you heard how they make wine there? They step on it with their feet.” She smiled brightly. “Their feet. Do you know what manner of deformities may be contracted from feet? Why, only Verruca vulgaris, that’s what!”
At their blank looks she added, “That’s Latin for ‘warts.’ My cousin Adeline has one on the side of her nose, poor thing.”
“Alice,” her mother hissed.
Lord. Save him from this dinner.
Lady Dorothea raised her glass to the Tombs ladies. “ ‘Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used: exclaim no more against it.’ ” She took a healthy swallow. “Mr. Shakespeare.”
Dalton clapped. “Bravo, Lady Dorothea. Well said.”
James had to agree. Hell, she had more wit and fire than all the other ladies combined.
She lifted her wineglass to Dalton, and when she lowered it, her bodice slipped even lower. James held his breath, mesmerized by the swell of her creamy breasts.
The thin scrap of silk held.
His control was wearing dangerously thin.
Chapter 6
The duke stared at her with intense, forbidding green eyes.
Charlene hoped he wasn’t playing one-of-these-ladies-is-not-like-the-others. She was trying to blend in with the others, but every time she opened her mouth, the countess kicked her under the table.
Between ankle jabs from the countess and being forced to forego a mountain of mouthwatering delicacies, Charlene was in her own private hell. The gown was too tight only in the bodice. Couldn’t she eat just a bit?
She sighed as the deliciously spiced beef was removed from the table only half finished.
What a crime.
It had been a very near thing with Grant. If the duke had invited his neighbor to dine, it would have been disastrous. Fooling an empty-headed ninny like Lady Augusta was one thing. Outwitting a treacherous adversary who knew her as Charlene would have been nearly impossible.
She drained her wine, remembering the feel of the baron’s hand clamped around her neck, the gleam of lust in his hard eyes.
Her glass was immediately refilled, despite the countess’s frantic signals. None of the other girls drank their wine, but Charlene didn’t care. It made her feel reckless and daring. Perfectly capable of entrancing a whole army of dukes.
“I’m fond of wine mulled with lemon and nutmeg,” said Lady Augusta in her breathy, little-girl voice. “Mama is forever telling me to pace myself.” She fluttered thick, curled lashes. “Sometimes I just can’t say no, I’m afraid.”
That silky wheat-colored hair, those pouty berry-red lips and enormous lake-blue eyes. It really wasn’t fair. Lady Augusta was too gorgeous, and well aware of the fact. She narrowed her eyes at Charlene in the polite equivalent of a tigress unsheathing her claws.
“Lady Dorothea, dear,” she simpered. “Remember when you drank too much ratafia at your coming out? Lud, I thought you would die of mortification when you cast your accounts all over Lady Beckinsale’s gold silk in the lady’s retiring room.”
Had that truly happened to Lady Dorothea? Poor thing. Charlene gripped her fork and contemplated sinking it straight between Lady Augusta’s perfectly proportioned breasts.
Instead, she smiled sweetly. “How could I forget? But wasn’t that also the night you were found on the balcony with a certain someone? You’d lost a button as I recall? Had it gone down your bodice?”
Lady Augusta’s cheeks flamed scarlet. “I never!” she exclaimed. “I declare, what has come over you? You never used to put more than two words together.”
“Ladies, please,” warned the marchioness. “This is most unbecoming.” She fixed each of them with a censorious stare.
The duke stared as well. His hot gaze made Charlene conscious of every movement she made, every breath she took.
“Lord Dalton, I hear you plan to race in the Gold Cup next June,” said Lady Vivienne. “Will it be Anticipation or Sir Marmalade?”
The conversation turned to racehorses, a subject of which Charlene knew nothing, thereby leaving her to her thoughts.
The duke didn’t seem to be swallowing Lady Augusta’s half-naïve, half-temptress bait. And Miss Doom and Gloom Tombs didn’t appear to be employing any strategy whatsoever. It was strange how she sounded quite normal until she said anything to the duke, and then words like warts and loathsome rot erupted.
Maybe she had nervous attacks, like Lady Dorothea.
Lady Vivienne played her cards to her chest, gambling on the appeal of the alluring lady of mystery.
None of these girls needed him the way she did. They battled for prestige, glory, the thrill of being called “Her Grace.” Charlene was fighting for freedom, her sister’s innocence, her mother’s health. She couldn’t fail.
Before tonight, she’d thought there was only one kind of nobleman. The domineering, imperious kind, who made the whole world dance to his whims with a firm hand on the reins.
But this duke was far more complicated.
His hands were large, with ragged nails and visible calluses on the fingertips and palms, as if he gripped his reins without gloves. She pictured those hands gripping her. Urging her to a gallop.
Now where had that thought come from?
It had to be the wine. She wasn’t accustomed to drinking anything stronger than an occasional sip of watered-down cordial.
He was unconventional. He didn’t follow any of the rules the countess had enumerated. He had his elbows on the table, and he’d introduced a servant to them at dinner.
That had been rather sweet, actually.
Although sweet wasn’t the word that usually came to mind when she thought of him.
Formidable.
Elemental.
The outdoors followed him inside in the pine-needle green of his eyes, the strong oak of his shoulders.
He was ill at ease crammed into a chair in a dining hall. He kept drumming his fingers on the tabletop and tapping his foot on the carpet, restless and ready to be in motion again.
So different from his languid friend, Lord Dalton, who exuded the allure of a choirboy gone astray, with his golden hair, classical profile, and wolfish grin.
Lord Dalton didn’t make her think about being gripped, though.
The duke slid his wineglass slowly over the sharp contours of his jaw and stared at Charlene with feral intensity.
She lifted her chin, held his gaze, and wriggled her shoulders the tiniest little bit. Her bodice shifted dangerously lower.
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Kyuzo had taught her that all adversaries had weaknesses. He’d also taught her not to let fear control her mind.
Feminine voices rose and fell, exclaimed and giggled.
Charlene tilted her head, imagining how she would seduce this duke when they were finally alone.
Unknot the cravat, undo the buttons, slide off the coat. Taut flesh beneath her questing fingers. Tightly leashed power. A man in complete control of his body, so aware of his own appeal he expected women to fight over him.
Her breath quickened.
She lifted her wineglass, took a small sip, and deliberately missed her mouth.
Ruby droplets slid down her chin and between her breasts. She dabbed with her napkin, quickly catching the drops before they stained the expensive gown, the soft pressure making her breasts strain against the thin silk.
The duke’s hand tightened around his glass until she thought the stem would break.
He rose in a clatter of tableware and scraping chair legs. “This meal is finished,” he announced, and strode out of the room.
Servants rushed forward to clear plates, and ladies exchanged shocked glances.
“His Disgrace has spoken, ladies.” Lord Dalton gave them a crooked smile. “You’ll have to forgive him. He’s grown unaccustomed to polite company.” He rose and offered his arm to Lady Selby. “Allow me to escort you to the drawing room.”
Damn these cutaway tailcoats and skintight pantaloons.
A man couldn’t have a cockstand without becoming a circus attraction. James had sat at the table, waiting for his situation to subside before he called an end to the interminable meal.
A woman hadn’t affected him this way in . . . ever. Certainly never a young, inexperienced one.
He preferred his bedmates older and more experienced. During his travels there had been a very inventive widow in France. An opera singer with magnificent . . . lungs . . . in Florence. A lovely actress in Trinidad. Women who understood the rules of the game and played for
their own pleasure. For the heated glances, the chase, the sublime moment of consummation. Maidens were too much trouble. They didn’t understand the rules of the game.
But something about Lady Dorothea obliterated his control and changed all the rules. The way she wreaked havoc with his sangfroid screamed of peril.
He should stay away from her. Choose Lady Vivienne or Miss Tombs and be done with this nonsense. Then he could head straight to London and into the arms of some luscious little featherhead of an actress whose only mystery was how she ever managed to memorize her lines.
Lady Dorothea was too much of an enigma—throwing him to the floor one moment, playing the brazen coquette the next. He didn’t need a complicated maze that ended in hazardous distraction.
He should go chop some wood. Drink a bottle of brandy.
Anything to take his mind off blue-gray eyes tinged with the threat of stormy seas.
Dalton poked his head in the study door. “You’re being unforgivably rude, you know. Come back and apologize. Their feathers are all ruffled.”
James sighed. “I’m too accustomed to living in the forest. I’ve lost the taste for inane chatter. I should choose Miss Tombs and be done with it. At least she’d keep my home spotlessly clean. What was I thinking? I should have had Cumberford choose me a bride. There are far too many females in this house. I can’t think.”
It had been wrong to invite them here to compete for him. As Lady Dorothea had so helpfully pointed out to the entire table.
James ripped the cork out of a bottle of cognac with his teeth and took a swallow.
“Four ladies. Three days. How bad can it be?” Dalton mimicked James’s deep voice.
“Very funny.”
“Why not Lady Vivienne?”
“If I listen to my head, I choose her. But other parts . . .”
“Prefer Lady Dorothea.”
“Is it that obvious?”
Dalton lit a cigar with a stick from the fire. “Afraid so.”
“Hellfire.” James sighed again. “How did this happen? This is supposed to be rational. Bloodless.”
“Got her hooks into you, does she?”
